


deeds of green thrilling light

by corellians_only



Category: Prospect (2018)
Genre: Author regrets nothing, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, Oral Sex, Smut, This is so shameless, ezra likes to make the rules, gender neutral reader, implied established relationship, inappropriate use of recording equipment, voice actor!ezra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corellians_only/pseuds/corellians_only
Summary: during a long night of recording, voice actor Ezra convinces you, his favorite sound tech, to take an unconventional break.
Relationships: Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	deeds of green thrilling light

You don’t know how long it’s been since his first innuendo. It could have been a mere five minutes. But the way that arousal curls around you insistently tells you otherwise, latent heat demanding attention with each passing moment that Ezra most decidedly does not have his lips pressed into your skin.

He wishes he does, though. He told you. Even did it once, when he came back behind the glass to go over the latest take with you. Wedging a leg between your own as he settled his hand on your waist from behind, he had dragged his mouth over the nape of your neck, murmuring about the manna of your skin as his tongue darted out for taste.

And then he was gone, leaving you bereft and utterly wanting, shaking with the effort to not collapse into his arms right then and there.

We need to focus, Ezra forms in your throat, but a mere whispered pant of his name escapes instead.

Smirking, Ezra turns his attention away from you. “I must confess these phrases slip through my clutches, and I apologize for keeping you, sunflower,” he says, referring to the script. “Let us continue.”

\--

He’s doing it on purpose. There can be no other explanation as to why this man positively moans around the plastic lips of his water bottle, throwing his head back to expose the naked expanse of his neck.

You want to turn away, to tell him to get on with it so you can both go home, but you’re transfixed by him. Eyes greedily map how his mouth conforms to the tip of the bottle and his throat strains with each swallow, how his eyes flutter shut in momentary relief.

With inexorable sense, those brown eyes open. Settling on you immediately, the glass doesn’t protect you from the scorch of his gaze, or the corresponding heat in your belly when he graces you with a quicksilver wink.

“Sunflower,” he sighs in to the mic, “while water proves itself most necessary for survival, increasingly I find that it fails to quench my thirst.” Another heavy sigh, this one dancing with an undercurrent of mischief. “I confess the only respite I experience is when I partake in libations more divine than this common stuff.”

There’s a slight edge to the way you speak his name. Is it warning? Desire? Or is it a little bit of both? Ezra makes you feel off-kilter and giddy at the same time. Awake while asleep, or asleep while awake. It doesn’t matter which, really.

“If you would be so willing, my sunflower,” he’s saying now, “to taste your essence would ease my mind...allow me to work more efficiently.”

It’s too loud in here; his voice is too much, filling the sound booth with sinful nuance and expectations beyond your reach. Unbidden, the image forms in your mind, his words swirling behind your eyes, deep in your core: him, on his knees, scarred hand secure around the plush of your thighs. You, head tilted back, the obscenities falling from your lips meager compared to the sound of his mouth between your legs.

You shift your stance, thinking that will make you more comfortable. It doesn’t, your arousal only rising at the chafing between your leg. Ezra catches your small frown of dismay and narrows his eyes in victory.

“Though perhaps what I require most to sustain me in the remainder of these dwindling hours,” Ezra drawls, “is the music you produce during such times. Such an artist you are, my dear.” He looks up from the script and meets your eyes again. This time, they’re almost black. “You put the songbirds to shame, and even more precious than they are your cries to me.”

Sincerity and desire roll off of him in equal waves, and the potency of his longing is enough to halt the breath in your lungs. Bracing yourself on the console, you lean forward, ducking your head slightly to alleviate your mind from the pressure of his gaze. It’s then that you spy the second pair of headphones. They should be on a hook behind Ezra; someone must have been lazy this morning and tossed them aside. Usually such a thing makes you frustrated. Tonight, an idea forms instead.

“Precious, Ezra?” you repeat, dragging out the words like you’re pulling them down from the clouds.

He nods. “That I do confirm.”

Your fingers fiddle with the curly-cue cord and you track their movements, watching them slide and twirl around heavy plastic. “And what if...you could listen to them every day?”

The blonde streak catches in the light as he tilts his head. “Sunflower, I implore you to speak plainly so as to bring both parties to satisfaction.”

Ezra’s prompt nearly severs the dialectic connection. He’s too smart not to have deduced what you’re about to propose, and if you know Ezra, is entirely too pleased about it too — driving you to edge where need and want blur into a single, unmarked entity. In his darkened method, he’s wrenching the power away from you once again, firmly planting you in a position of entreating him equally with word and action.

But then he raises an eyebrow and lets his eyes rake over your body and all thoughts of his subtle power play evaporate under the restrained simmer of his stare. There’s something exhilarating about reciprocating his words with a wantonness of your own, something liberating in how Ezra forces you to voice to your needs. Something rather dangerous about it all.

And you _crave_ it.

Wrapping the cord around your wrist, one hand secures the headphones while the other preps a new track, one outside the files for your current project. Your legs are shaking when you finally cross the threshold into his sacred space, the forbidden side of the glass where you were never meant to tread.

But with Ezra, _never_ is merely a construct of malleable time and space. With Ezra, _never_ ceases to exist.

“Now, sunflower,” Ezra inquires softly as you approach. “What is this…grand proposition of yours?”

A kiss to his jaw and you’re rewarded with a tender exhale across your cheek. “What if,” you murmur, kissing down the column of his neck that you had so admired earlier, “I let you taste me right now?” Pausing, you scrape on his pulse point lightly, and his hand flies to your hip, abandoning the pencil for something more sturdy.

“I am intrigued,” Ezra rasps, and you shudder against him as his nearness finally begins to seep into you. “But I remain confused regarding the object in your hand.”

Dragging your lips back up his throat in hot, open-mouthed kisses, it seems you are willfully ignoring his query, and Ezra is torn between abject annoyance and the desire to grind his hips against yours. Leisurely in your conquest of his skin, it’s not until you reach his ear that you halt and finally speak again.

“We could record ourselves,” you murmur, teeth catching on his earlobe. “Would you like that, Ezra?”

The grip on your hips turns almost painful, and Ezra’s words come in ragged, upturned exhales. “The prospect does entice me, I must admit. And yet I must ensure enthusiastic agreement on your part, my Sunflower. Equal communications between partners ensures the success of a deal, after all.”

Intertwining his hand in yours, you drag his thick digits along your front. “Please, Ezra,” you whisper. “Don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel how much I want you?”

He swears softly — oh, shit — before configuring your headset, murmuring to you as he does so. _Never before have I encountered such decadent indecency, oh, how I ache knowing how you toiled for hours with such desperation in your touch, never more shall my sunflower wilt for attention._

Dropping to his knees, Ezra kisses your wrist softly. “I have two rules for you, my sunflower,” he informs you. “The primary stipulation to this agreement is that you tell me if and when you want me to stop, and I will.” Another kiss falls from his lips, this time to your still-clothed thigh. “The second requirement is to refrain from retreating into silence.” He gives you a devilish grin. “It appears to me that doing so would rather negate the purpose of this exercise.”

yes, Ezra, yes, you agree, whimpering as he frees your lower body of all clothing. He _tsks_ in response, dragging his nose along the inside of your thigh.

“Patience,” Ezra reprimands, drawing another soft moan of frustration from your lips as he continues to tease you. Nails drag lightly along your skin as he kisses up the opposite thigh, spanning across your hip. It’s infuriatingly slow; you need him and you need him now.

“Ezra, please,” you try again, only for your plea to be met with a sharp smack to your ass. Pain mingles with a fresh course of potent desire and your hips buck forward involuntarily, crying out a gasp of surprise. The action brings you even closer to his mouth, Ezra’s soft lips a feather-light brush against your raging heat enough to elicit another lewd moan from your mouth.

“Unless I am experiencing an unusual failure of memory,” he murmurs against your skin, “I recall I instructed you to practice patience, sunflower.”

 _yes, Ezra, yes, I’ll wait,_ you all but sob, and with your acquiescence he starts to edge his mouth to your center. Looking down at him, your jaw goes slack with anticipation, resisting every urge to grip onto his chocolate locks and press him against you. It almost hurts, how badly you need him, desire now rampant through your bloodstream after hours of his lewd comments and lingering stares.

When he finally, finally presses a kiss where you need him most, your corresponding moan is so loud you raise a hand to your mouth in reflex.

Not looking up, Ezra tugs your hand away and brings into the back of his head in a single movement, encouraging you to twist into his hair for leverage. He’s tender, at first, tasting you with broad licks and exploratory kisses. All simple actions that he’s performed dozens of times before but are enough to make you drip onto his tongue when it flickers out to taste you, enough to for you pant his name and clutch his hair as he works you up nearly to the point of oversensitivity.

“Truly, I am a blessed man,” Ezra says, the sound slightly muffled, “for such sounds are more pure than nature herself.”

 _m-more, Ezra, please,_ you stutter, and swear you feel him smile before taking all of you in his mouth. A cry releases high in your throat and Ezra groans in response, the vibrations sending shock waves throughout your body. Still steadying your hips in his hand, Ezra starts to work you faster and faster, alternating between firm strokes of his tongue and hollowing his cheeks to suck lightly. It’s absurd how good he feels, and this time you have no qualms about holding his head in place with the strength of your arm, pulling on his hair with every well-placed movement of his tongue.

A firm squeeze on your bare skin invites you to look down and you comply. Oh, is it a vision of debauchery. Ezra’s darkened eyes watch you watch him devour you with unrestrained abandon, a small furrow between his brow as he pursues your pleasure, as he tastes you with open enthusiasm. You’re hyperaware of everything — the fine texture of his hair between your fingers, his fingers pulling you even more deeply into him, the weight of the headphones, the heavy sounds of your wetness in his mouth.

It’s enough to make you positively _keen._

Taking his hand for the second time that night, you gently pry it away from your hip. Now free from his hold, you roll your hips into his mouth experimentally, head dropping between your shoulders at the sensation. Ezra moans again, returning his hand to your ass to guide your movements, each grind of your hips bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

 _f-fuck, Ezra, your mouth, I can’t - I can’t wait much longer, oh my fucking god you feel s-so good._ It’s as though he had seen your vision and has now willed it into existence, reducing you to stammering, half-formed phrases as he somehow continues to hold you in that space where everything is too much but still not enough.

Catching on to your need, Ezra matches his pace to the one you set with your hips, working his mouth faster and faster until he finds a spot that make you curl into yourself in white-hot pleasure, muscles tensing with effort. _right fucking there, ezra, don’t stop, please don’t stop,_ you’re hardly aware of saying the words as he readily complies, moving once, twice, three times until you shudder around him, releasing into his mouth with drawn-out cry of his name.

He stays there, watching you once more, tongue wrapping around you lazily until you finally push him away with a shiver. “Too— too much,” you gasp, closing your eyes and gulping down deep breaths in an attempt to gather yourself.

When you open them, you find him nuzzled against your front despite the arousal clinging to his his chin, his lips, his facial hair. “By Kevva,” he drawls, sounding slightly out of sorts himself. “I stand by my previous statement. Such sweet sounds have never before graced this earthly realm. Nor have I ever tasted anything so sweet, more rich than wild honey.”

Fondness colors your movements as you run your fingers through his hair, scraping his scalp lightly in silent apology for tugging too hard moments earlier. “And I consider myself lucky to have a reason for such cries,” you tell him.

Ezra’s responding kiss to your bare skin is sticky and sloppy but all the more meaningful because of it. Reaching for your discarded clothes, though, he can’t resist one more comment.

“How many wretched passages of time much we wait until we can listen to our art?” he asks cheekily, expecting a glare for his forwardness.

Dragging your clothes from his hand, you instead guide him to his feet, fingers resting on his own waistband. He regards you curiously, waiting for you to continue.

“By Kevva,” you say, echoing his previous words as you drop to your knees before him. “Who said we have to wait?”

[fin]

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you're curious, the title comes from the poem 'i have found what you are like' by ee cummings. I can also be found over on tumblr @filthybookworm if you want to chat!


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